Bake Off
by SekritOMG
Summary: The school is having a bake-off, and Stan thinks he can win -- if he can survive through the week. Slash. Stan/Kyle. One-shot. Etc.


_I don't know if this is good or terrible or even if I like it, but after reading one too many stories where Stan is a really really good cook for some reason, I just had to write this to get it out of my system._

_Also, apparently you cannot give things on this site very long titles, or use hyphens in them. Man, I'm annoyed. The full title of this story was _supposed_ to be "Three-Legged Race For Sprained Ankle Awareness Bake-Off."_

_I really hope that's all._  
_  
ETA: Oh god, it's not all! Apparently this site really screwed with this story when I uploaded it. For example, I really think all of my hyphens and dollar signs disappeared. Never fear. I will try to replace them._

_Enjoy._

* * *

Say, hypothetically, that you were a student at South Park Elementary when you were 9, and when the school year ended, your parents whisked you away to parts unknown. If, at age 13, you returned as an eighth grader, your assumption would obviously be that Janet Garrison had been your class's teacher for the past four years or so. That would be an incorrect assumption, because she hadn't been. It just so happened that at the beginning of the year, Miss Suki went back to Japan, taking her paper lanterns and crazy blue anime hair with her. And, given her seniority, Mrs. Garrison stepped up to the plate and reaped the dramatic pay hike.

And that was why she was standing at the front of the room that morning, banging on her desk, screaming at the class for their attention. "I mean it, you kids!" she shrieked. "I will have order in this classroom or God help me I will—" An eerie silence settled over the room, and she licked her lips. "That's better."

"Dude." Kyle Broflovski turned to his black-haired friend. "Is it too late to skip a grade?"

"I think so," Stan Marsh replied.

"Godammit."

And so the boys were forced to listen while their once-and-current teacher lectured through the first 15 minutes of the first homeroom of eighth grade. She addressed the finer plot points of the later seasons of _Home Improvement_, and attempted to instill in her students some insight on the subject of menopause. "Mrs. Garrison," Clyde whined, his arm quivering in the air like a long white flagpole. "This doesn't apply to me."

"Or me," Jimmy added, voice mocking Clyde's arm with a shakiness of its own.

"You goddamn boys don't know what applies to you," their teacher shrilled. "You think just because you have dicks you'll never need to know anything related to being a girl, well, you're wrong!" This shut them up, as most of the males in the classroom gave one another sideways glances, trying to see if one of them understood this askew logic. The little girls, many of whom were on the precipice of physical maturity, if not already fallen into the pit, just sat there with satisfied smiles, on some unattainably female level perfectly capable of sympathizing with, if not understanding, their teacher.

"Speaking of which," she continued, scrawling something on the board. "I'm supposed to tell you all about a little upcoming fundraiser the school is having." The clickity sound of chalk scraped its way across the blackboard, but her shiny head was in the way. Some students strained to make out a coherent thought, but just as many let their eyes glaze over until the message was complete and in view.

_South Park Elementary Three-Legged Race For Sprained Ankle Awareness Bake-Off_, the board read.

"Yes, that's right," Mrs. Garrison parroted. "It's time for the South Park Elementary Three-Legged Race For Sprained Ankle Awareness Bake-Off."

"Excuse me." Stan Marsh's arm strained as he raised it as high as he could. "Excuse me, Mrs. Garrison?"

"What is it, Stanley?"

"Is this … is this a bake-off?"

"No, dude," Kyle corrected. "It looks like a three-legged race."

"Then why does it say 'bake-off?' "

"No, it says right there, three-legged race."

The entire class rolled their eyes at this display.

"You boys shut the hell up," the teacher snapped, sitting back down at her desk. "I'll tell you what it is."

"Is it a three-legged race?" Kyle asked.

"Dude, it's a bake-off."

"Stan! Kyle! I'm the teacher, and you listen to me." She paused to clear her throat. "It's a bake-off—"

"Ha! I knew it, dude!"

"Stan!" the teacher reprimanded. Stan covered his mouth with a hand. "It's a bake-off to raise money for the upcoming three-legged race."

"What!" Kyle screeched. "That makes no sense!"

"Well, you can't have a three-legged race without any money to put it on, can you?" Mrs. Garrison pointed out.

"But if the whole point is to raise money for a cause! Doesn't holding a bake-off to raise money for three-legged race for a cause seem counterintuitive?"

"Oh, I've had it with you boys and your naggy little questions. Fifty points, Kyle."

"Excuse me," Kyle said. "What 50 points?"

"You know, you're talking out of turn, so I'm taking 50 points."

"I…" Kyle paused. "I don't _have_ 50 points."

"Well, yeah, I mean, I'm taking 50 points from your house."

"My house?" Kyle asked. He looked around the classroom to see if any of his classmates were comprehending this, but only Stan was paying attention to him; Eric Cartman was even so far removed as to be playing a Nintendo DS under his desk. Tweek was scratching visible shavings of wood pulp off the grimy surface of his desk, and that little girl with the red hair — what the hell was her name? — was picking at her nails. "I just," Kyle continued. He looked at his teacher, who was staring at him expectantly. "I'm … oh," was his lame finish.

Mrs. Garrison smirked, satisfied that her genius new strategy for getting students to shut up, completely confusing them until they began to doubt themselves, was working already. "No more questions?" she asked.

Stan's arm shot up again. She called on him. "It's a bake-off. I mean, it is a bake-off. Right? We don't have to race or anything?"

"Well, the _plan _was to just have a three-legged race," the teacher explained. "But apparently the entire school budget has been _appropriated_, let's say, by the town budget committee, for the purposes of paying for that bronze statue of Frank Filchock."

Clyde raised his hand again. "How much does it cost to have a three-legged race?"

"Hell if I know. Yes, Bebe?"

"What kind of costs are associated with a three-legged race?"

"I really don't know or care. Gatorade table, maybe?"

Craig didn't even bother raising his hand. "So a three-legged race costs money but a bake-off is free?"

"Can we please just worry about the three-legged race when it's time for the three-legged race?" Mrs. Garrison shouted, her face turning red.

"Dude," Kyle whispered, turning back to Stan. "Do you think it's too late to get sent _back_ a grade?"

"No, that's not going to work. We'd have to do eighth grade eventually."

"Go_damm_it."

"Okay, fine. Class, raise your _hand_ if you don't understand how this works." In front of her eyes, 25 hands shot up into the air. "Oh, great, you're all a bunch of little retards." She sighed. "Okay, I will break this down into a simple concept for you. One week from Friday, in the gymnasium, we will all set up baked goods on tables. Some judges will come around to sample them all, and one entry will win, and get a prize. Then everyone else's crappy cooking gets sold to raise money for the three-legged race."

"A prize," someone hissed, and the entire class turned to the center of the room to see Eric Cartman shut his gaming device, and raise his eyes toward the front of the classroom. "Are you telling me that this bake-off is going to be … judged?"

"Well, _of course_ it is, you little mongoloid. Don't you know the definition of the term bake-off?"

"Hmmm," was Cartman's reply. "Hmmm, _yes_. I _see_. And there will be a _prize_ awarded?"

"I already said there would be!"

"Interesting."

"Okay, fine. If you kids are too stupid to figure out something as simple as a bake-off, you're all way to stupid to learn anything else today. Go take some recess or something until next period." A hand shot up.

"Mrs. Garrison?"

"Oh, Jesus, what? What is it, Wendy?"

"We haven't had recess for three years."

"You haven't? Oh, what a shame. Well, now's your chance to catch up." A set of 25 faces stared right at her. "Didn't you kids hear me? Scram!"

XXX

As the bulk of the class ran out of the room as fast as their legs could carry them, Stan held back, approaching his teacher's desk with trepidation. He rubbed his hands together nervously, casting a gaze out the door to make certain everyone he knew was gone.

"Stanley," Mrs. Garrison said calmly, looking up to see the black-haired boy standing there. "Don't you want to go have recess?"

"I have a question," he answered warily.

"Okay. Well, I guess I'm your teacher. I'm here to help. What's your question?"

"I, um…" Stan looked around again.

"Is it women's troubles?" Mrs. Garrison asked. "You want to borrow a tampon?"

"What? No!" Stan cried, holding up his hands in mock-self defense. "I'm a boy!"

"Mmhmm," she said. "Right."

"I was just wondering," he began carefully. "Who is supposed to do the baking for this … bake-off … thing?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. Your mother?"

"What if … what if, um … what if _I_ wanted to bake?" Stan shot this last part out rather quickly, and he hid his eyes with his hands. But when he didn't hear the sound of abject laughter ring out after his freakish question, he lowered his defenses, and gave Mrs. Garrison a curious look, begging silently for an answer.

"Well, Stan, I should think that would be perfectly acceptable," she said simply.

"I'm a good baker, actually," he said, now a bit bolder. "I just think I can do a better job than my mother, is all. I mean, I like baking, and I — yeah, that's it." He shut his mouth tightly, and looked back at his teacher, sitting at her desk with her hands folded on top of a women's magazine.

"Well, I think if you want to bake, go ahead, but you know the other boys are going to get their mothers to do it for them."

"I know."

"All right, well, it's fine, I mean … it's not often 13-year-old boys are so secure in their identities."

"Well, I — excuse me?"

"You know — baking? It's okay with me, Stan, I'm not going to judge you."

"Um, no. I think you, um, I think you misunderstand me." She gave him a cross look, and he nearly fainted. "I have to go now!" he cried, voice cracking, escaping the room as quickly as possible.

"Pffft," Mrs. Garrison scoffed, flipping a page of her magazine. "Men."

XXX

Stan didn't pay attention in class that day. He just let his thoughts simmer, indulging them with fresh notions of culinary chemistry and the perfect consistency of a tray of warm brownies. He thought about all the things his mother had been showing him how to make: cookies, muffins, fruit-filled pies. Not long after she helped him struggle through a recipe, he was able to master it. If he were having a bake-off against his mother, he could easily trounce her.

He considered what he was going to make for the bake-off. Certainly he needed to be his best. But what was his best? Did he want to impress the judges at first glance? The tallest cake he'd ever made was for his father's birthday; it was three layers of sheet cake, chocolate frosting carefully applied with an icing knife. He'd given the inscription on the top, _Happy Birthday Randy_, so many tries that by the time he felt his hands were steady enough to actually write it on the cake, the tired message came out _Happy Birthday Radny_, about which his father had obviously asked, "Who's Radny?" But other than this people really liked his cake. He knew it was decent because his sister had threatened to smash her piece in his face if she didn't like it and, well, she hadn't.

By the period preceding lunch (science, like it mattered) Stan was beginning to have second thoughts. Cake was so trite. These were going to be professional pastry judges! They weren't going to be fooled by a tall, chocolate cake, and especially not one that wished Radny a happy birthday. He needed, like, the perfect recipe. He needed someone he could trust. So he figured he'd just ask Kyle. Kyle had been eating all of his baking over the past year, and Kyle rarely liked anything. He _said_ he liked everything, but Stan could totally tell the difference between a half-hearted, "Yeah, it's fine" and a really positive response. When he put something in his mouth and he _really_ liked it, Kyle's eyes would light up, he would chew a little slower, and he would give Stan a little smile and say, "Yeah. It's _awesome_."

Stan didn't care if his parents or his grandfather or whoever liked what he made. If Kyle didn't say it was awesome, he dumped it in the garbage.

Or took the rest to Kenny's.

XXX

Immediately after seating himself with Kyle and Kenny at lunch, Stan began to prod his friends for ideas on what to make.

"Doughnuts," Kenny said resolutely. "Fresh doughnuts."

"Chocolate soufflé," Kyle suggested. "My mom got it once. She said it was 'interactive.' "

"Fuck that! You know Rice Krispies treats? You should do that with, like, Fruit Loops. Or Trix! People will think you're classy."

"That's not classy! Baked Alaska is _classy_. Make that."

"What the fuck is a baked Alaska? You know what my mom makes that's great? Chocolate-covered waffles. You just make a waffle, and—"

"He can't win with that, dude. Crepes suzette?"

"Oh, like anyone even knows what that is, Kyle."

"Like chocolate-covered waffles are a real dessert, Kenny!"

"They are too!"

"Yeah, in the ghetto!"

"You guys!" Stan looked at his friends, who stopped arguing, and turned their attention toward him. "I can't make any of that."

"Why not?" Kenny asked.

"Well, because I can't make something made out of Kellogg's breakfast products, I just can't."

"Basked Alaska is not—"

"And the problem with the other suggestions is, this thing has to sit on a table in the gymnasium for a long period of time. It can't be something that has to be served really hot or really cold or right away _at all_."

"I guess," Kyle shrugged, taking a bite of his lunch.

"It doesn't have to be dessert," Kenny mumbled. He then chomped down on a carrot.

"You guys!" a voice cried, and all three boys turned to the end of the lunch line to see Eric Cartman scrambling toward them, somehow balancing a tray of food _and_ a backpack _and_ his Nintendo DS with headphones around his neck _and_ a thick copy of _Civil Procedure: Cases and Materials_. "Oh my god, you guys, _seriously_," he panted, slamming the book down on the table. This caused Kenny's carton of vitamin-D milk to wobble over, and he looked down, sadly, as the last droplets of his daily allotment of calcium spilled out onto the table.

"Ha ha," Cartman said to the frowning boy. "No more milk for you."

Kenny just mumbled something under his breath and cleaned up the spilled milk with his thin paper napkin.

"So, you guys," Cartman said quickly. "I am so going to win that bake-off."

"Do you want me to buy you a new milk?" Stan asked.

"It's okay," Kenny replied. "I don't need your pity milk."

"_I said_, I am going to win that bake-off," Cartman repeated.

"We heard you the first time," Kyle growled.

"Yeah we did," Stan said automatically. Then he turned back to Cartman. "Wait, no I didn't. What did you say?"

Cartman sighed, and removed the headphones from around his neck. "If you don't listen to people when they speak, Stan, you're going to find yourself missing out on all sorts of opportunities. Like, for example, the opportunity to enter this bake-off."

"I heard about _that_," Stan said grouchily.

"And the opportunity you have to _lose_ to me in the bake-off, you heard about that one too?"

"Yeah, I—" Stan stopped. He looked at Kyle and Kenny, and then back at Cartman. "You can't win the bake-off!" he snapped. "You don't _bake_!"

"That may be true. But you know who the best baker in South Park is, Stan?" Stan shrugged. "Kenny? Kyle? One of you guys want to help him out here?"

"Stan's a pretty good baker," Kyle said. Stan gave him a little smile; Kyle smiled back, and then looked down at his wilted broccoli.

Kenny thought for a moment. "Is it … is it your mom?"

"Oh, good job, Kenny," Cartman said. He stuck his tongue out and dug around in his pocket for something, which he slammed down on the table in front of Kenny's lunch tray; to do this, he narrowly missed knocking over Kyle's diet Snapple. "Here. You win a prize of your own."

"This is, um…" Kenny counted the change. "This is 70 cents."

"Good job, Kenny. I see those first-grade math skills are finally helping you out. Why don't you go treat yourself to a new milk?"

"But milk costs 75 cents," Stan said. Kenny and Kyle both looked at him. "Aw. Sorry."

"I could lend you five cents," Kyle offered.

"I wouldn't borrow money from that Jew if I were you, Kenny. His interest rates are through the roof this month."

"Shut up!"

"I don't want pity milk anyhow," Kenny said sadly, pocketing the change.

"We are getting off the point here," Cartman said, slamming his first on the table. "That prize is _mine_."

"No way, fat ass," Stan said. "I'm going to beat the pants off your mother!"

"You don't need to enter the bake-off to do _that_," Kenny chuckled.

"'Ey!"

"I was talking to a couple of tenth graders, and _they_ said—"

"'_Ey_! Shut _up_, Jew!"

"All right, _fine_, fat ass. You're mom's _not_ a whore." Kyle grinned. "And she's also not a better baker than Stan. Stan can bake anything!"

"Is that so?"

"Of course!"

"Shut up, Jew. I'm asking Stan."

"Well, I—"

"The answer is no!" Cartman slammed his fist on the table again. "My mother is _not_ a whore, and you are _not_ a better baker than her, and one week from Friday, I am going home with that prize. Do you understand?"

"You can't keep me from entering this bake-off, Cartman. We all have to bring _something_."

"Well, I suggest you do what Kenny's doing and just bring some waffles with chocolate sauce. Because if you in _any_ way screw me out of this prize, I will tell everyone your secret."

"My secret?" Stan asked, voice jumping up about six octaves.

"That's right." Cartman grinned slyly. "If you so much as take runner-up, I will personally administer shock-torture to your balls."

"Dude," said Kyle.

"Huh," said Kenny.

Stan took this opportunity to spew on his lunch tray.

XXX

On Saturday, Stan called Kyle. "I need your help," he said.

"It's 11 a.m., Stan, Jesus," Kyle moaned. "Call me back in three hours."

At 2, Stan called back. "Are you up yet?" he asked.

"Yes, no thanks to _you_."

"Great! I need your help."

"With what?"

Stan outlined his plan: Key lime pie. "It can sit at room temperature, it's exotic, it's unexpected. You've got be really good to get the flavor just right or it's too sour. Or not sour enough."

"Well, that sounds fine. But where do you think you're going to find Key limes in Colorado in September?"

"Not a problem. You know that sketchy Asian grocery store where Craig and those guys have been buying Pocky?"

"You mean City Grocery?"

"Uh huh."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Stan…"

"Meet me there in half an hour."

"I really don't want to," Kyle moaned.

"Look, do you want to help me?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Do you want _Cartman_ to win this thing?"

"Of course not! It's just—"

"Just what?"

"Well." Kyle sighed. "I don't know, dude. Bad things always happen when we get involved with Asians."

"Kyle," Stan whined. "Please?"

"I'm not—"

"Pleeease?"

"All right, fine! Fine, I'll go to the stupid Asian grocery store with you! But if I so much as get looked at funny, I get to eat the first piece of your pie."

"Fine," Stan agreed. He wanted Kyle to have all of his first pieces anyway.

XXX

Stan found Kyle waiting outside the range of the automatic doors, hands in his pockets, scowl on his face. "You look cheerful," Stan drawled, trying to be lighthearted and careful at once.

"Yes, well, I so love being woken up early to go on these wonderful adventures!" Kyle made sarcastic spirit fingers to go along with his declaration.

"I'd hardly call this an adventure."

"Could have fooled me!"

Inside the store, Kyle began to pick up random packages of things they couldn't identify. "I think this is squid," he said, shaking a bag in Stan's face.

"I'm here for Key limes and I'm leaving with Key limes," Stan said shortly, heading for the produce.

"As long as we're here," Kyle drawled, only to disappear down a different aisle.

After picking out the limes he wanted, Stan wandered some aisles, generally looking for Kyle, but specifically perusing the merchandise. In the freezer section he found little pastel ball-shaped cakes, and in the Pocky aisle he found not just Pocky, but also Yan Yan, Hello Panda, and Koala's March. "Oh my god," he said to no one in particular. "I wish I were Asian."

"Dude!" a voice squealed, and Stan turned to see Kyle walking toward him with an armful of groceries.

"And you didn't want to come here," Stan said.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know they had 70 kinds of ramen."

"Do you think I should get some jelly pots?"

"I think we need Kewpie mayo."

"Is that like regular mayo?"

"It's Kewpie mayo."

"That explains so much."

"It all makes sense, doesn't it?" Kyle asked, inspecting a package of pizza-flavored crackers. "Did you feel something?"

"Feel what?" Stan asked, seriously considering moving to Yokohama.

"I don't know, something hit me on the head."

"I'm surprised you can feel anything under that fucking helmet you're wearing."

"I'm getting it cut next week," Kyle explained.

It was at this point that a chunk of the ceiling fell. It would have hit Stan directly on the head, too, if Kyle hadn't screamed "Look out!" and heroically (albeit hilariously) shoved Stan out of the way, which involved a sort of slow-motion flight across the grocery store.

Stan couldn't help thinking that Kyle trying to save him was, like, totally manly. "Get off me," he growled, shoving Kyle out of his lap.

"This is the thanks I get for saving your life?"

"Thanks."

"After you dragged me to this deathtrap supermarket?"

"You were pretty into it a few minutes ago." Stan said this while he and Kyle watched three employees with brooms scuttle over to the scene of the collapse, all the while muttering and yelling in a language they didn't know.

"Can we please pay for those things and get out?"

"Of course," Stan agreed, standing up and brushing himself off.

XXX

As it turned out, because his life was put in peril, Stan was given his limes gratis.

On the walk home, Kyle kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked at the ground. Stan gazed directly ahead, suddenly a little more in love with life than he was before he was in jeopardy. "It really puts things in perspective," he marveled.

"Oh, a ceiling falls in at a cheap Asian bodega, and this is an epiphany for you?" Kyle asked.

"Something like that," Stan replied, not in the mood to explain it.

"Well, we could sue them."

"I'm not injured."

"My dad would do it _pro bono_."

"It's really okay. Say." Stan paused. They were walking down the commercial strip of Main Street now, but because it was a Saturday and already 4 p.m., most everything was closed. "Did you feel something drip on you?"

"Must have been an air conditioner," Kyle offered. "My mom says it happens in New York all the time."

"Well, we must be in the New York part of South Park, then."

"Shut up, Stan."

"You shut up, dude."

"I told you to shut up first."

Stan sighed heavily and said little for the rest of the walk home. Which was fine, because Kyle's mind was preoccupied with school, so he talked about that. Apparently eighth grade was going to be full of American history and polymers in addition to bake-offs and three-legged races. Having looked ahead on the syllabus, Kyle spoke of a Salem witch trial reenactment, coming to their classroom sometime in November — provided their teacher didn't put that on hold to reenact old episodes of _Bewitched_. "Same difference," Stan shrugged. Whereas Kyle found the prospect of learning to be promising, Stan just couldn't bring himself to be that much of a dork.

As soon as Stan pushed open his front door, he quickly handed his bag of limes off to Kyle and ran back to the kitchen to turn on the oven. "What are you doing that for?" Kyle asked, trailing behind.

"Gotta preheat it," Stan explained.

"Ohhh."

"Don't you know anything about baking?"

"Not really," Kyle shrugged. "You're so good at it, why do I need to know anything?"

"Well, haven't you been paying attention?"

"Yes, I spend all of my time writing down everything you do, and — no, Stan, I haven't been paying attention. You make me food and I eat it." He paused. "This fucking preheated oven is making me hot," Kyle complained.

"You're always hot."

"Can we open a window?"

"Sure." Stan walked over to the window and began to unlock it. "So I've already made the crust."

"You're kidding me."

"No, I got up this morning at 10 a.m. and made the pastry dough."

"Dude," Kyle sighed. "I was sleeping."

"Yeah, well, while you were sleeping, _I_ spent all morning making pastry dough."

"There is no reasonable reason for you to be up before noon, dude."

"Pastry dough," Stan suggested.

"Sorry, no."

"Pastry dough," Stan repeated.

"Please just make this pie."

Stan was happy to oblige. He cheerfully zested limes while Kyle looked on. Stan would jokingly call him a sous chef, but his help was unnecessary. He was companionship, moral support — a bauble of positive reinforcement. Stan cracked eggs and whisked and washed his hands after wiping his brow; Kyle talked about the first week of school, and homework.

"Do you really think they'd hold you back if you failed the Constitution test?" he asked.

"Oh, like you're going to fail," Stan scoffed.

"But if I did, theoretically. If I failed, would I have to repeat eighth grade?"

"You'd better hope not. Then you'd have Garrison a fourth time."

"Yes, I'd have — dear god, Stan. We have to pass that test."

"It's not until the end of the year."

"It's never too soon to start studying! Quick, what's the Second Amendment?"

"Right to bear arms," Stan mumbled, pouring the filling into the pie crust. He looked at it with satisfaction.

"How did you know that?"

"What? Oh, that. Eh, I've pretty much had it tattooed on my ass since I was born."

"Jimbo?" Kyle asked.

"Jimbo," Stan confirmed. "Did something just hit me in the back of the head?"

"I don't think so." Kyle slipped off his chair and walked over to Stan, and they both stared down at the vivid green mess in the pie crust. "Are you going to bake that?"

"Oh, it has to sit before I can bake it and put the meringue on."

"Ah," Kyle said. "Well, that sounds great. How long does it have to — oh my god!"

"Oh your god wha — oh my god!" Stan jumped up in the air when he realized that his hair was on fire.

"Oh Jesus!" Kyle cried. "Oh, holy fucking hell, Stan, what the fuck!"

"Put it out!"

"With what?"

"I don't know!"

"I — oh, Jesus!" Kyle scrambled toward the refrigerator, which he flung open. Stan's dad was keeping a bunch of cans of beer, orange juice — a bottle of water. "Here!" He whipped the plastic bottle at Stan. In shock, he deflected it and it hit his knees and the floor in succession.

"What do I do?"

"Dump it on your head!"

Stan, trembling, picked up the bottle and unsteadily unscrewed it before clumsily dousing himself with uneven splashes of water. The fire did, indeed, begin to go out.

"More water!" Stan ordered shakily, not daring to move. Kyle grabbed the pie filling bowl and, ignoring the green oozy residue on the bottom and sides, filled it with tap water and dumped it on Stan's head. Then he jumped back. "Is it out?" Stan panted, tentatively pushing at the wet black clumps of his bangs.

"I think so," Kyle breathed, touching his own bush of bright hair in trepidation.

Drenched, blackened, and smelling like a barbecue, Stan slumped. "Kyle," he said. "Someone is trying to kill me!"

"Oh my god!" Kyle blinked. "Someone is trying to kill you!"

XXX

Unthinking and scared, they fumbled downstairs. Kyle slammed the basement door behind him, and Stan nearly tripped over himself trying to flip the light switch.

"Holy fucking Christ!" Kyle exclaimed in the cool, damp basement. "Someone is trying to kill you!"

"Not someone," Stan groaned, falling into an old chair. "_Cartman_."

"You think _Cartman_ is trying to kill you?"

"Um, yeah. I mean, he said he was going to get me if I won this contest!"

"I know," Kyle agreed. "But, I mean, it just … seems so unnecessary."

"Since when has that stopped him?"

Kyle sat down on the cold ground, and drew his knees up to his chest. "You've got to not enter this bake-off, dude!"

"But dude." Stan got off his chair and sat down next to Kyle, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Stan," Kyle said directly. He grabbed his friend's dirty hand and squeezed it. "I don't want you to die."

_That's sweet of you_, Stan thought to himself. "That's nice of you," he said.

"I'm serious!"

"I'm not not entering the bake-off, dude. I mean, I have to bake something."

"Just have your mom make a cake or something."

"What if I just give Cartman the prize?"

"Oh, you know it's not just about that," Kyle said. "I mean, I think he really has something invested in his mom being the best baker in town."

"Why can't they just have a whore-off?" Stan whined. "She'd sweep that for sure."

"Heh. Whore-off."

"I'm serious."

"No, I'm serious, Stan." Kyle let go of his hand. "Please say you won't put your life in danger? For me?"

"Okay," Stan agreed. "I promise."

"Okay. Good."

"Okay."

They just sat for a moment, and Stan coughed a couple of times. "You all right?" Kyle asked him.

"Just fine."

"Good."

A few more minutes of silence.

Stan found himself looking at Kyle's lips. They were so pink. It was incredible. Maybe it was just that he was a little on edge, what with his life being on the line and all, but suddenly he was looking at his friend's mouth as if he'd never seen it before in his life. Which was amazing, frankly, because he and Kyle spoke every single day, and those lips were attached to Kyle's face.

That was when Stan was hit by two realizations: One, he was incredibly dirty; far dirtier than anyone should be in the presence of a normal human being. This would have made him feel self-conscious enough, if not for realization No. 2, which made him feel even worse: Kyle spoke to Stan every day, out of that very mouth, and yet this was not enough for the fledgling baker. The idea that food he made had passed, and would pass again, through those very lips unnerved him. He was envious of himself. And yet Kyle had held his hand, and said he didn't want Stan to die. Being tired and scared but never too tired and scared for an adventure, Stan decided in a momentary heartbeat that he would test things out with a little experiment.

Leaning into Kyle, he took a deep breath. He could smell himself; he smelled like a dying charcoal pit. He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could. He heard Kyle say his name, voice sopping with fear and uncertainly. He'd never done this before. Every other time he'd leaned in to kiss someone — a girl, always a girl, usually Wendy — he felt his stomach twist. Not this time — this time felt calm, like the glassy sheen of an ocean. No, that was stupid. He was being stupid. As he puckered his lips he felt that hours were ticking by slowly. It had actually only been a few seconds. He wedged his moist, ashy lips to Kyle's unmoving dry ones.

He felt Kyle grab his shoulders and squeeze them. He wasn't sure what that meant. The smooth lips under his parted, and then they shut again. It was unbearably chaste. Stan felt Kyle pushing his entire weight down on his shoulders, and when he opened his eyes, lips still pursed, he saw Kyle standing over him, mouth open in shock, hands hanging at his sides because he didn't know where to put them.

"I," Kyle began.

"Kyle," Stan said, unable to hoist himself.

"I have to go."

"Kyle," Stan repeated, pleadingly, and yet Kyle was already running toward the stairs, up the stairs, through the door. Stan heard the basement door slam, and then he heard the front door come crashing to a close. Strange that he had felt so calm and unsick before, because now he felt more nauseated than he ever had in his life. He laid himself down on the chilly cement floor, making sure to press his cheek to the ground. The cold made him feel a little less horrible, and he shut his eyes.

XXX

"Stan," Sharon Marsh called out. Stan was hoping to get upstairs and cleaned up before his family got home, but he realized that he was too late. "Stan, get in here! You left the oven on!" Shuddering, he stumbled into the kitchen.

"What happened to you?" she asked. "You look like you've been in a fire."

"Something like that," he replied.

"What happened?" she repeated.

"Baking accident."

"Are you all right?"

"I've been better," he croaked. He pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning back, thoroughly drained.

"What's wrong?" Sharon sat down at the table with him. "I thought you were baking."

"I was," he grumbled. He looked down and realized that he was still sort of wet, the shoulders of his green T-shirt were still singed with sooty black mess, and he still had powdery flour patches on his jeans from rolling out the crust that morning.

"It looks like you didn't get very far," she said, nodding toward the unbaked pie.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Sharon said calmly. She continued to look at Stan. Stan crossed his arms. Sharon smiled at him. He felt himself crumble on the inside.

"Mom?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything," she said sweetly. "What's on your mind?"

"What if," he began. He played with the damp edge of his T-shirt, which was going to be a bitch to clean, thanks to those dirty shoulders. "What if," he repeated thoughtfully. "What if Shelly was a lesbian?"

Sharon's eyebrows shot up. "Your sister is gay," she said dully, not asking.

"No! I mean, _maybe_. I'm saying, _what if she was_?"

"Is she?"

"What? I don't know, she could be! In theory, if she was. What would you do?"

"What do you mean, what would I do?"

"You know, you and dad." He paused. "What would you _do_?"

"Well." Sharon pinched her lips together, and sat back in her chair. "I don't really know that we would _do_ anything."

"You wouldn't, like, kick her out of anything?"

"Stanley, don't be ridiculous!"

"So you wouldn't?"

"No! How could you even think that?"

Stan shrugged. "It happens," he said morosely.

"Stanley." He felt his mother take his jaw in her hand. "Look at me." She didn't have to say this; she already had his attention. "If Shelly were gay, Stan, your father and I wouldn't love her any less. We wouldn't kick her out. She'd still be our daughter. Do you understand me?"

"I think so," Stan croaked.

"Okay." Sharon sighed, and took her hand away. "Honey, you smell like an ashtray. Why don't you go take a shower?"

Instead he took a bath.

XXX

Stan and Kyle didn't speak that week, and Stan began to dread the looming bake-off. On Sunday his parents sat down to eat the pie he finally completed late on Saturday night, and they both told him it was good.

"Only good?" Stan asked with uncertainty.

"No, it's very good," his mother said. "It's just … I don't know, is it missing something?"

"I followed the recipe," Stan told her.

"Could use some more sugar," his father suggested.

"That would completely ruin the consistency of the filling, Randy."

"Yeah Dad," Stan agreed. "Consistency."

"It's kind of bitter."

"It's supposed to be bitter," Sharon Marsh explained. "It's made of citrus."

"Why does it have to be bitter?" Randy pressed. "Seriously, just put some more sugar in it."

"That's your answer for everything, just dump some more sugar in it. You don't know anything about baking, Randy. You can't just add sugar to every recipe. Things need to be rationed out."

"Well, whatever. I'll be watching TV. Nice job, Stan. A little bitter, but nice job." Randy patted his son on the head on his way out of the kitchen.

Stan rolled his eyes.

His mother tried to reassure him. "Come on. This is a very competent pie."

"But something's missing."

"Well, I mean—"

"It's okay. I know what's missing," Stan admitted.

"What is it?"

"What is what? Oh, huh." He got up and put his plate in the sink. "I don't think I can explain it. But it's not sugar, Mom. It's…"

"…metaphorical," his mother suggested.

"Yeah." Stan paused. "I don't know if I can win the bake-off."

"Eh," she shrugged. "Think of it as a learning experience. You're not baking to win, are you?"

"Winning is nice, but no, I … well, I think I'm going to bed." And he said goodnight to his mother before doing just that.

XXX

Friday's bake-off came quickly enough for most students, but it snuck up on Stan like a panther stalking prey. He truly felt he hadn't enough time to perfect his craft, and he knew he hadn't run it by the proper authorities. His parents were fine judges if he wanted to see if a dish was poisonous or caused the eater to instantaneously empty the contents of his stomach, but when it came down to it, only one boy was the test of Stan's mastery of any single dish.

That boy, as it happened, made himself truly scarce that week. He was mysteriously absent at lunch; whether Kyle was hiding himself in the library or just wearing some kind of lunchroom disguise, Stan didn't know. All he knew was that every pie he baked tasted like nothing to him. His parents tried to reassure him, but after a while they were sick of eating Key lime pie. Every flounce of meringue began to bounce off their tongues like Jell-o, until they both told Stan on Wednesday night that they would no longer indulge him in his baking paranoia. His pies were fine, and he should feel fine about them. And if he didn't win the bake-off, it wasn't the end of the world.

Before Stan had ruined everything, competing against Cartman was a game that he and Kyle were playing together, pretending to grudgingly care about their rotund nemesis. Now, Stan figured things would work out either way: If his dish lost, he got to keep his life. It he succeeded in baking something great enough to trample whatever Liane Cartman was bringing to the table, he'd be rewarded with a swift death, and never have to wonder why he'd done something as blastedly retarded as trying to kiss his best friend.

(This was far preferable, in Stan's mind, to losing the bake-off, remaining alive, and having to stare down Kyle and his petal-like lips for eternity or until they graduated high school, knowing full well that Kyle's little bow of a mouth would never, ever form a word for him again.)

Friday was a sunny day, which was great. The worst thing that could have happened to Stan would have been his pie falling victim to the elements at the bus stop. But then, that was another reason he'd chosen Key lime: It was solid. It could withstand a lot. Sitting on the bus next to Kenny and his plate of soggy brown waffles, Stan sighed and wished he were more like a pie — totally unfeeling, adaptable, able to hold up again the pressures of being bumped and tossed in the stream while making a perilous journey through trials and—

"Are you okay?" Kenny asked, tugging at the sleeve of Stan's jacket.

"What?" he asked, shaking himself out of his thoughts, where he'd been wallowing for the better part of a week now.

"You seem distracted."

"Oh." Stan swallowed. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You know," Kenny sighed. "You always get like this when you fight with Kyle."

"We're not fighting," Stan said, which was true. They weren't interacting at all. Stan stole a quick glance at Kyle, who was sitting two rows up and across the aisle, feet curled under him on the brown vinyl seat. He was definitely sitting next to someone, and if Stan had been able to rationalize spending more time glaring at this friend's freshly cut hair, he might've guessed that Wendy was on the bench next to Kyle, her cheek sheltered from the window by her wall-like black mane.

"Okay," Kenny sighed. Stan could hear the doubt in his voice. "Let me know if there's something I can do, maybe."

"Sure," Stan agreed. He knew he didn't have to lie, because there was nothing Kenny could do for him.

XXX

"What the hell is that?" Kyle asked, gazing up at the towering pile of pasty as it cast a shadow across his pale face.

"That is my mother's Cakey Yum-Yum Surprise," Cartman answered, hints of self-satisfaction his voice.

"Dude." Kyle let his eyes scale Cartman's bake-off entry, a veritable orgy of every kind of baked good known to man: The base seemed to be constructed out of some kind of brownie, given the weight it was supporting, alternating layers of cakes and fillings. The entire thing was neatly shellacked with pink buttercream, and Mrs. Cartman had skillfully applied yellow and blue flourishes of decoration. At the top of the heap was a single cherry on a bed of white fluff, and Kyle winced when he saw it, because he wasn't sure if that cherry was sincere, or if it was a cloying joke by the maker on her day job, or an ironic statement about the nature of the bake-off entrant she made it for. Either way, he decided, it was absolutely cruel.

"So," he said, nausea audible. "What's the surprise?"

"How badly I'm going to crush Stan's fragile little ego with this triumph of culinary industry."

"I thought you _knew_ you were going to win."

"I know I am. It's _him_ who doesn't have any idea that his precious little tartlet is about to get creamed."

"It's _he_," Kyle said automatically.

"Don't correct me, buttfucker." Cartman paused. "After the judges come by you can have some," he offered

"What? Eating that would be like poison for me."

"I know."

"Can you go a week without trying to kill me or Stan, fat ass?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't play coy with me, shithead. I know you've been trying to get Stan all week."

Cartman scoffed at this. "Please, Kyle. That's just delusional. Why would I want to kill Stan?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Because you're afraid he's going to win."

"If you're so concerned for Stan, why don't you go over to him? He looks sad over there all alone by his stupid little pie."

"Shut up, fat ass! That pie is going to kick this monstrosity's ass!" Kyle gestured to Cartman's entry. Any other day and he probably would have abandoned his tray of rugelachand gone to sit by Stan to offer him moral support, if for no other reason than to get the hell away from his frenemy, whom he was absolutely disgusted to learn he'd been placed next to on the crudely sketched and photocopied set-up map. (He'd asked Mrs. Garrison to reassign his place, but he'd been shut down with a venomous brush-off.)

"Oh, really? And how do you know? Have you had some? Have you savored its sweet deliciousness?"

"Well, no," Kyle admitted.

"Then I supposed it's anyone's game," Cartman settled. He crossed his arms and turned away. But, as always, his curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly turned to see Kyle peeling the cling wrap off of his tray of pastries.

"Hey," he said slowly. "What the fuck is that?"

"This?"

"Yes, bitch. What the fuck is _that_?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "My entry for the bake-off."

"Godammit, I know what it _is_, I just want to know what the fuck it _is_."

"It's rugelach," Kyle told him.

"Is that some kind of Jew thing?"

"Of course." Kyle lips widened into a smile. "Want one?"

"Why are you offering me food?" Cartman asked, taking a subconscious step back. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing. But it's not going to win anyway."

"What did you put in it? So help me, Kyle, if you are trying to poison me with your sneaky Jew tricks—"

"Oh, lord. There's no _poison_ in it. You can have one." Kyle picked up a piece and took a bite, chewing slowly for effect. "See? I mean, it's not very good, but there's no poison in it."

"Aha!"

"Aha _what_?"

"You can eat it because there's nothing in it that could harm _you_."

"I assure you, I can eat what you can eat."

"Not if there's Christian blood in there," Cartman said slowly.

Kyle's face went red. "There's no blood in here!"

"How do I know that?" Cartman took a step forward now, an accusing look in his eye. "I hear the Smithson children went missing a few nights ago. Do you know where they ended up, Kyle? Because something tells me those little girls have been right under our noses this whole time."

"You're not seriously suggesting this!"

"What if I am, Kyle?"

"Dammit Cartman! I did not kidnap two little girls, murder them, bleed them out, and have my mother put their blood in this rugelach!"

"Pagan blood then?" Cartman asked, completely serious.

"God fucking dammit, no! There's no blood in rugelach!"

"Ah, godammit," Cartman sighed. He was quite visibly struggling over what to indulge — his overdeveloped appetite, or his misplaced anti-Semitic repulsion? Kyle smiled slyly again, and picked up his tray.

"Go on," he said, edging the dish toward Cartman. He smiled prettily and arched his eyebrows submissively.

"Godammit," Cartman repeated. His hand shot out to grasp a piece of Jew food, and he nervously stuffed it in his mouth, biting a bit off. "Godammit!" he said a third time through a mouth full of food. Kyle set the tray down and watched Cartman with amused interest. Cartman wrinkled his nose as he chewed.

"Ew! You were right." He swallowed. "This is sick!"

"Sorry," Kyle said with a sarcastic shrug. Then he smirked. "My mom's not a very good cook. I keep telling her to add more children, but she doesn't listen."

Cartman's eyes widened at this. "I hate you, Kyle," he gasped. "Really and truly."

XXX

Across the gymnasium, Stan watched this scene play out as he loitered near his pie, hands wrung together, nervously sweating. Well, that was it — that was the nail in the coffin of his closest friendship. Kyle was allied with Cartman now. He whipped his head from side to side, trying to determine who he could fall back on. There were some seventh graders to his left and Heidi Turner to his right, but after the initial hellos he and Heidi had gone back to doing what they'd done for the past six years of school: ignore each other. No reason, really. She just wasn't very interesting. Wait, was that a reason? Didn't matter; it didn't matter. If Cartman was going to come get him now, and if Kyle was helping, well, there was nothing to be done. He knew it was lucky that they'd never gotten along up to this point, because if Cartman's evil ambition and Kyle's intellect ever fused, well, that would be the end of him. And here it came. Goodbye, world.

"Stan Marsh?" a voice asked, and Stan turned to see the mayor and her goons standing in front of him, hands on her hips and no real expression on her face. That bastard, he had the mayor after him now? Oh, if he made it out of this alive he was going to—

"Are you Stan Marsh?" she asked again.

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that would be me."

"Could I…?" Could she what, kill him? She might as well, it would put him out of this misery. Go ahead, please, ma'am, I'm totally ready. "Could I have a piece of your pie?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Your pie? That I'm supposed to be judging for the bake-off?"

Stan shook himself and turned around, wordlessly grabbing a knife and cutting a small slice. He then slid the piece of pie effortlessly onto a small paper plate and took a brief moment to study the small seam where the meringue met the custard, mint-green in its lucid waxiness. With a napkin and plastic fork, he handed the green-haired lady an eighth of his creation — no, it was more like an eighth of his soul. He could sigh all he wanted but without his Super Best Friend he might as well be a fucking pie, completely emotionless, ready to be consumed by whoever would—

"Hello?" that same female voice rang, and Stan looked up, not realizing he'd been staring across the gym, but looking at fucking nothing. But now he was being called back to consciousness.

He shook his head again. "Um." He paused. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was fine," she said, handing him back the plate of pie, minus about a half-inch of the tip where she had obviously cut off a sample. "Nice job, kid," she said blandly.

"Thanks, but—"

She didn't stay to listen to him. There was more to judge.

XXX

"Hello?" a voice ran through the gymnasium, fuzzy and slightly distorted. Stan had long ago resolved himself to an afternoon (if not a life) of complete misery, and now he was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, face in his hands, certainly not looking up to the front of the room.

"Hello? Students? Can you hear me?" A series of boxy scuffles as the microphone was obviously being tapped.

"Oh, you can hear me?" Stan began to begrudge his school principal, wondering why she couldn't just let him be wretched in peace. He looked up to the front of the room where a woman with enormous yellow hair was wearing a magenta blazer, standing by herself in front of a microphone.

"I'm so happy everyone was able to join us today for our Three-Legged Race For Sprained Ankle Awareness Bake-Off. I know everyone worked really hard, and before I announce the winner, I'd just like to say that—" Stan didn't care what she had to say, but he was confident that he had a decent shot and winning. It wasn't going to fix any of his real problems, of course, but if he did win, he could expect to be shot dead before he even made it up to the microphone. Regardless, he knew what he had to do, so he got up on his feet, brushed off his khakis, and crossed his arms, left with nothing to do but wait.

There was more talking. Some applause filled the room. The mayor was talking. What was she saying? He didn't care. He strained to look at Kyle, and then seeing his former friend standing next to his rival, he looked down at the ground, put his fingers in his ears, and wondered if he was going to be shot with a handgun or a sniper, and what kind of muscle Cartman would hire to get the job done. He didn't know what kind of person would shoot a 13-year-old boy on the precipice of a baking career, but—

"…Eric Cartman!" The name rang out through the gym, and it resonated in Stan's ears with a terrible metallic sound, like a gong, deciding his fate. His shoulders fell, and he looked away, tore his eyes away from his competitor, who was pounding across the room now moaning, "Yes, _yessss_," in his country-inflected baritone.

"Oh my god, you guys, serious_ly_," Cartman drawled out over the microphone. "Oh," he sniffed, and Stan could hear tears, triumphant tears, permeate the electric buzz of the room. "I'm so happy, you guys!" Stan tightened his lips and looked over at Kyle, who was staring at Cartman himself, mouth part-way open, eyes empty. Stan knew he had to look away, but he couldn't, he couldn't bring himself to—

"…dedicated to my dear friend Stan," Cartman was saying, wiping his eyes. "I know how _hard_ he worked, and I know how _badly_ he wanted to _win_…"

At the mention of his name, Stan saw Kyle slowly turn his head, and for a moment their eyes locked. Stan swore he felt his heart stop beating, if only for a second, and then before he knew it, Kyle was sprinting across the gym toward him, sidestepping distracted students and dodging tables laden with plates of cookies and red velvet cupcakes. To Stan, this was all happening in slow motion, as if he weren't _really_ conscious of it; it only took one syllable, however, to jar his meandering mind back into present time.

"Stan!"

Stan felt something knock into him, a body, and he although the arms wrapped around his chest were in theory constricting his lungs, laboring his breathing, for the first time in a week, he felt decent. He tentatively raised his hands and wrapped his arms around the redhead's shoulders.

"Kyle," he sobbed. He wasn't crying, but there was an emotional weight to his voice, and he felt the same feeling in the back of his throat he felt when he _did_ want to cry.

"Stan," Kyle said again, and he let go, stepping back. "I thought you were going to win!"

"You did?" Stan asked, trying to talk around his emotional impediment. Kyle nodded. "That's … nice of you," he said softly.

"I thought you were going to die!" Kyle flung himself back at Stan, tucking his uncharacteristically small nose under Stan's chin.

"You … did," Stan said idiotically.

"I did!" Kyle confirmed. Stan could feel Kyle's lips move on his neck when he said this. He felt sorry to see the redhead remove himself from their embrace, and back away for a moment.

"What about Cartman?" Stan asked.

"What about him?"

"Well, you were, like … _talking_ with him."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I talk to him every day!"

"But, you were, you know…"

"I have no idea."

"You gave him one of your cookies!" Stan burst out.

"They're not cookies," Kyle said matter-of-factly. "They're rugelach."

"Is that that crap your mom makes for Jew Year's?"

"_Rosh Hashana_."

"Whatever!"

"Look," Kyle said sweetly, trying to cover his exasperation. "That fat fuck is totally, totally paranoid. I was only trying to psyche him out."

"Why?"

"Why? Because Stan, I thought you were going to die!"

"That doesn't make any sense!" Stan protested.

"Yeah, well, I just … I don't know, I needed an outlet." Kyle voice became very quiet, and he blushed a little. "I feel really bad about what happened."

Stan blinked in surprise, and bit his lip. Then he said, "Oh. Oh, yeah. I guess you would." He looked at Kyle, but the other boy just stood there. So Stan continued. "I'm really, really sorry, dude. You have to believe me. I don't know what happened, I just — I don't know if I can explain it, but … I thought … well, I thought you never wanted to be my friend again and, um … um, yeah, that's all. Sorry."

"You're apologizing?" Kyle asked.

"Well, yeah, dude. I'm sorry I … you know."

"I should be the one apologizing!" Kyle gushed. "I ran away! I ignored you all week long!"

"I deserved it," Stan said softly.

"No." Kyle took a little step forward, narrowing the gap between them. "No you didn't. I'm sorry, dude. I just, um … well, I wasn't really prepared, so…" Kyle looked around the room at all the students milling about, sampling each other's pastries. A few stray arms brushed against Kyle's back as they ran past; Stan felt the rush of some people from the other side of the table he was facing away from. "I'm sorry," Kyle repeated.

Stan blinked. "Okay. I forgive you, dude. But I feel like I'm the one who should—"

Kyle might assume that Stan was going to apologize for kissing him again, but he'd never know because Stan couldn't talk when Kyle was kissing _him_.

Stan didn't know what to do, really, so he gently shut his eyes and bunched his lips up as tightly as he could, which was how he felt a person should let someone kissing him know that he was enjoying it. He felt Kyle gently touch his elbow, and then—

"Fags!" And then there was a spray of intensely annoying laughter.

"Godammit Cartman!" Kyle cried, opening his eyes and wrenching his lips away from Stan's, the latter's mouth now tensed in confusion, wondering where Kyle's had gone.

"Oh shit," Stan said, wiping his mouth as a delayed reaction to the interruption.

"Oh," Cartman moaned ecstatically, eyes closed and mouth open. "Oh thank you Jesus _yes_. I won the bake-off _and_ I find you guys kissing? This is the greatest day of my _life_."

"If this is the greatest day of your life your life must be really pathetic and horrible," Kyle retorted.

"Not as nearly pathetic and horrible as your fucking blood cookies."

"Oh, godammit, you _know_ they're not cookies, they're—"

"What?" Stan asked in confusion, glancing between the other two boys.

"…and anyway, you didn't _catch_ us kissing, this is a public space, we're not doing anything wrong," Kyle concluded.

"Fine, Kyle, whatever, be a fag, like I give a crap. The important thing is," Cartman paused. "I won the bake-off! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Good job," Kyle said sarcastically.

Stan swallowed, and extended a hand. "Good job, dude," he said to Cartman, blushing, actually surprised he was having to do this, because he was really expecting to win. (And _if_ he had won, Cartman would never offer a hand in congratulations, because he was a piece of crap.)

Cartman just looked at Stan, and pulled a plastic card out of his back pocket. "Do you see what this is?"

"Um," Stan said, studying it. "What is that?"

"This is my prize for winning the bake-off," Cartman cheered.

"Is that a gift certificate to RadioShack?" Kyle asked.

"How do you know what gift certificates to RadioShack look like?" Stan asked.

"It's a _20_ gift certificate to RadioShack," Cartman said, voice satisfied and boastful. "And it's all mine! Do you want it, Stan? Do you wish this was _your_ 20 gift certificate to RadioShack?"

"No," Stan said honestly. "RadioShack sucks."

"No it doesn't!" Kyle spit out, and both Stan and Cartman looked at him. Kyle smiled in embarrassment and covered his mouth with his hands.

"Dude," Stan said indulgently.

"That's right, RadioShack is _awesome_. And I have—"

"A 20 gift certificate," Kyle said in boredom. "We know."

"So it looks like everything went my way after all."

"Yeah, except you didn't manage to kill Stan."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Are you still on about that, Jew? Look, I'm telling you, I didn't try to kill him."

"Why should I believe that you weren't trying to kill me?" Stan asked.

"Please, Stan," Cartman drawled. "You really thought that I thought that a super-megazord-lame kid with some girly baking fetish could beat my mother with her years of experience and expertise?" On another afternoon, Kyle and/or Stan would have followed this statement with a lewd comment, something along the lines of "I'll bet she's got experience!" or maybe just a simple and straightforward "In bed."

"But you said you'd shock my balls!"

"Idle threats."

"But … you said you were going to tell everyone my secret!"

"What secret? You and Kyle being fags together?"

"We've only been fags since a couple minutes ago!" Kyle frowned at this, and Stan corrected himself. "But that's not the point!" he raged on.

"I was pretty much just going to tell people you fuck your dog. You know, use Photoshop to make some pictures or something."

"Sick dude!"

"Yeah," Kyle agreed. "That's way _way_ worse than me and Stan."

Cartman chuckled, and clasped his hands together. "Oh, don't worry. I'll deal with your budding romance later."

"Oh no," Stan droned.

"Oh yes. What would the student body say if they knew you and the Jew were tag-teaming poor Sparky?"

"Please don't," Kyle asked.

"I guess that depends on what happens down the road."

"What happens _what_?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah," Stan agreed. "That hardly seems fair. We haven't even done anything to you!"

"That's where you're wrong. For you see, the mere existence of you two guys has been a thorn in my side for just the _longest_ time. I hate you guys, seriously, I really really do. But I can hardly worry about it now." Cartman grinned and pointed down at the ground. "For you see _I_—" He paused. "Have got a little date at RadioShack. So, screw you guys, I'm going _there_." After a swift pointing gesture, Cartman stalked off, the bulging pockets of his cargo shorts threatening to de-pants him entirely as he departed.

"Can he just do that in the middle of school?" Kyle asked.

"Who cares? Let him leave."

"When do we have to go back to class?"

"Probably right now," Stan said, checking a clock on the wall. "Why, you don't want to miss civics?" Kyle nodded, and they walked together slowly but surely back to class.

"Stan?" Kyle asked as they passed a water fountain.

"Yeah?"

Kyle stopped walking entirely. "I'm sorry you didn't win the bake-off."

"It's fine," Stan said coolly. "I hardly need 20 at RadioShack."

"No, but I know it wasn't all about that for you. I know you want to be a good baker."

"Whatever," Stan said honestly. "It's more important to me that the people I care about like what I made than the stupid mayor and her stupid lawn jockeys."

"Really?"

"Yeah really," Stan confirmed. "Besides, I got the prize I wanted anyway."

"Ew, dude." Kyle wrinkled his nose. "Sappiness. Gross."

"Sorry."

"I forgive you." Kyle paused. "If you take me back to the Asian grocery store and buy me some strawberry Pocky."

"Okay."


End file.
